


Wasteland

by Rukia



Category: Fallout 3, X-Factor (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-25
Updated: 2010-10-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 21:19:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/129188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rukia/pseuds/Rukia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two hundred years after nuclear destruction, humans struggle to survive in the ruins of Washington D.C.</p><p>An AU story involving Rictor and Shatterstar in the Capital Wastelands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wasteland

1.

In the Capital Wastelands, trust was a luxury.

Exiled without supplies from the Vault buried deep beneath the earth and forced to scavenge on the barren surface, Benjamin Russell soon squandered that luxury on the wrong people. When the disorientation of the Mesmetron device finally wore off, he found himself behind a high fence in the back of the Paradise Falls slaver compound.

Around his neck he wore a heavy slave collar that chafed and itched, rubbing raw patches of skin along his neck. His fellow inmates told him not to tamper with the lock. Ben took the warning as a challenge, but soon saw their wisdom when a fellow newcomer tried to pop the collar open with a bent paperclip and promptly blew his head off his own shoulders.

Aside from the half-hearted warning about the collar, few of the other slaves ever spoke to him. As the days passed, Ben realized why: they were all ghosts. The hard looks shared in the eyes of the traders, the buyers, and of his fellow slaves made it clear that there was no hope on the inside and no hope on the out. Ghosts trapped in cages, contracted to the highest bidder and dead long before their final breath.

Ben's life was now worth little more than a pile of cola caps.

Ben understood warfare. He knew when to fight and when to wait for an opening. Patience was vital to this situation. Unfortunately, the life he once knew had rarely kept him waiting. There had always been a battle to train for, an audience to entertain, a victory to seek. This endless monotony was whittling his patience to nothing. Eventually, he would break. Either he would attack his slave handlers simply to go down in a rain of bullets, or he would become a ghost, same as the rest.

One evening, a very different sort of buyer appeared in Paradise Falls. In fact, he didn't seem to be a buyer at all. Ben noticed a young man, dark and unshaven, kneeling near the children's pens, which were separated from the adult pens by a chain link fence. Ben wandered close to the edge of the fence to eavesdrop.

"If you get us out of here, Mungo, we'll show you the way to Little Lamplight," the oldest of the three children said.

"Hey, no calling me Mungo. I know what that word means," the man pushed a pair of dirty goggles off his tanned face to rest them on his forehead, pulling back the unkempt bangs that framed his sharp features and dark, intelligent eyes. "You call me Ric, got it? Your Mayor Miller hired me to get you out and bring you back."

The Lamplight kid scowled, but grudgingly took Ric's word - not on faith or trust, but on the simple fact that there was no other way. He told Ric where he could find the access terminal to deactivate the collars and then explained the best way to sneak inside the slaver complex.

As the kid spoke, Ric's brown eyes looked past him to where Ben stood silently in the adult pens, watching.

Ric smiled and winked at him. Ben blinked.

Then, Ric turned and strolled down the hill, towards the main building. He pulled a Stealth Boy mechanism out of his pocket along with a set of makeshift lock-picks.

Twenty minutes later, the gunfight began.

 

2.

It was hard to tell whether or not Mayor Miller was relieved to see her Little Lamplighters returned to her. She was a short girl with blond pigtails and a black top hat. She rarely had a facial expression outside of 'bored' or 'smart-ass.'

For rescuing her people, Mayor Miller paid Ric a weeks' worth of food, five boxes of ammunition, and a large re-sealable plastic bag stuffed with used bottle caps. With no national mint and a need for commerce, old nuka-cola bottle caps were the most viable form of currency in the Capital Wastelands.

Ric decided against counting out each cap in the bag. If Miller kept her word, then all was well. If she didn't... well, unlike other towns and havens, this was the only one peopled and run by children. He wasn't about to feel sore over being shortchanged by a gang of kids.

Mayor Miller asked, "All good?" Her blue eyes had an unsettling quality – as if she knew the trajectory your thoughts were heading before you even got there.

Ric ignored that. Most of the Little Lamplighters were just really creepy brats.

"Set. I'm out of here," he shouldered his bag. "Good doing business with you, Mayor."

"Good luck on the outside. Don't get eaten," she said. She was leaning up against what was once a schoolhouse in times past. "Tell that pretty stalker of yours that he's welcome to come by, but only if he's with you. We're not welcoming to most Mungos otherwise."

While traveling over the vast terrain by foot for the past two nights, there were occasions where either Ric or one of the kids spotted a lone figure following them from a distance. He suspected the stranger that had been trailing them since the bloodbath in Paradise Falls. He must be a freed slave. Anyone or anything else would have tried to gut him and the children for supplies, long before they could make their way to town.

Ric scowled, "How did you know about that guy?"

"I'm Mayor Miller," the edge of her small mouth quirked up, but her gaze was hidden by the brim of her top hat. "I know stuff."

 

3.

Ric grew up in the Capital Wastelands, south of the Mall, in an offshore battleship converted to a haven called Rivet City. Like most Wastelanders, he knew what he needed to know about survival.

He knew that supermutants and enclave soldiers never traveled alone and should be avoided at all costs. He knew that ferals could only be stopped with a well-aimed shot to the head. He also knew that purified water was about the most precious commodity in existence, while a sip from the Potomac River was for those masochistic few that happen to enjoy radiation poisoning.

Ric thought he knew a lot, but he didn't know how to coax a shy stranger to the fireside.

He watched the large shadow inch closer to his camp. He wanted to call out and invite him for dinner, but any act of trust in the wasteland was usually met with suspicion. He cleared his throat and the shadow paused some twenty feet away. Then he spoke loudly, as if to no one in particular, "All I've got are some baked beans and a few bottles of nuka-cola. Still, it'd be a damn shame to eat all alone."

Quietly, the large figure materialized at the edge of Ric's makeshift camp, tensed and obviously ready to run at the first sign of danger. Judging from his long fiery hair and facial tattoo, he was indeed the strikingly handsome man Ric had seen at the slaver compound. He was slightly taller than Ric, with a wide chest and long limbs of bulky muscle, where Ric was admittedly lean and compact. The stranger wore Vault-Tec overalls that were frayed and grey compared to the standard-issued blue Ric had seen on the occasional escaped Vault-dweller. He wore fresh blood from his shirtfront down to his worn shoes and cradled a furry bundle in his arms that held the stench of death.

The stranger regarded Ric with a detached look.

Taking in the spectacle of the man, Ric wondered if _he_ should be the one to make a run for the hills. "Is that uh," Ric's voice broke - his mouth felt dry and voice shaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Is that from a Yao Guai Bear? Those things... those things are vicious."

For a moment, Ric wondered if the stranger could speak at all. Then, without a change in his guarded expression, the man said. "I killed it and used its pelt to carry the meat... the creature attacked me." He added the last part, as if he needed an excuse to kill something that could have easily ripped his arm off and ate it.

Hoping to break the strange tension in the air, Ric affected a laugh, "Last mistake that bastard ever makes."

A cautious grin tipped the man's lips.

Ric stood slowly. He knew a friendly offering when he saw one. "Y'ever eat cooked Yao Guai?"

"No," the man said. He looked down at the bundle in his hands, "How does it taste?"

"Better than most stuff you can find out here... once you get past the smell," Ric kept his smile steady. "What say I cook that up for us and get you cleaned up with some decent clothes?"

"I would like that," The man relaxed and handed the pungent fur sack to Ric. "My name is Benjamin Russell. May I travel with you?"

 

4.

Three nights pass.

Ric held out the blanket, scowling, "Now you're just being stubborn."

Ben glared at the offering and didn't move to take it. "As are you."

In exasperation, Ric swung his arm out to indicate the pitch-black wilderness surrounding their small camp. Tonight, unlike earlier nights, was one of those times his mother used to call 'the first mean snap of winter.' He said, "You're going to freeze to death if you don't take the blanket."

"As are you," Ben repeated, crossing his bare arms. They still did not have a jacket large enough to fit him.

The first night had been the most difficult in terms of clothes. Ben's old overalls were bloodied beyond use. Ric's spare clothes were such an ill fit that Ben tore the pants in several inconvenient places when he tried to sit down. Ric still needed to get him warmer clothing. Even now, the only things that could fit Ben were a sleeveless shirt, loose jeans, and a pair of boots, all of which they managed to either find on corpses or trade with traveling caravans to get.

"Not my fault if you freeze your ass off," With a huff, Ric squatted down by the fire. "Damned stubborn Star-man," he muttered.

Ben's eyebrow twitched, perplexed, "What did you call me?"

Ric glanced up at his travel companion. He tapped a finger to the untarnished flesh beside his left eye.

"Oh, right," Ben looked away. He resisted the urge to cover the mark along the side of his face. It was a black star, with more points than the usual five. The lowest point drew a long mark down his cheek.

The silence that grew between the two men was a mixture of irritation and shame. Finally, Ric asked, "What's the story with the tattoo?"

Ben studied the other man, considering whether or not to answer an earnest question. He wanted Ric to know more about him, as he enjoyed the growing sense of trust between them. However, he did not wish to admit his dishonor and shame to Ric.

Slowly, Ben stepped around the campfire and sat down next to his travel companion. He settled close enough for their shoulders and knees to touch.

Ric fidgeted, but didn't move away. _It's freezing_ , he told himself, _and if Ben won't mind, I sure as hell won't._

Ben spoke softly, "In Vault 777 – where I was born – many of the people are... not well."

Ric heard of this story before: escaped Vault-dwellers where eager to share their tales with any stranger willing to buy a friendly beer.

Two-hundred years ago, as nuclear warfare seemed inevitable, the Vault-Tec Corporation became a household name. At the time, folks were eager to sign up for Vault assignments to survive nuclear destruction. Ric's own great-grandfather had been a vault-dweller. Control Vault 76 had automatically opened after twenty years to re-colonize the vast, dead surface, and so the Richter clan had done just that.

Hundreds of Vaults dotted the remains of America: some were still sealed away, some opened, and some got destroyed. Recalling the stories from escapees of the Vaults that were far worse than his ancestors' refuge, Ric said, "Word is that the Vault-Tec Corporation made only about a dozen Vault shelters work as advertised. Those were the control tests. The rest weren't meant to keep folks safe and were used for crazy shit instead. Y'know, strange social experiments to see how normal people survived stressful situations."

Ben stared at him. His eyes were distant, as if his mind were busily fitting pieces together to shape a larger image – an image that had been obscured until this moment. "How so?" he asked.

"Well, these are just some of the things I've caught wind of," Ric scratched the back of his neck. "Let's see, there's Vault 36, where the food extruders only made gruel. Vault 106 released psychoactive drugs into the air ducts after the Door first sealed. That one was pretty ugly. Vault 108 was a cloning lab with a bunch of dudes named Gary. That was just weird. Oh, yeah!" He perked up when he recalled his favorite story, "And then there's Vault 69. There were 999 female residents and only one male. Just one guy!" He laughed, but stopped when he saw that Ben found no humor in the story.

"I see now," Ben said, as if to himself. "If that is truly the case, then I think I know what they wished to experiment on in my home Vault."

"What are you talking about?"

"The story of my ancestors. My mother would tell me the tale many times as a child," Ben stared at the flames in the campfire. His eyes hardened as he explained. "I believe those Vault-Tec maggots wanted to find out what would happen if people were trapped in an endless bombardment of media. The radio played in the PA system and there were television sets everywhere one looked. About three years of entertainment material broadcast in a constant loop. I do not know how my dweller-ancestors handled it at first, but the strain on the people began gradually and then... they became desperate."

"That's strange," Ric shrugged, brushing against a warm arm. "Why not just destroy the televisions and radios if it was driving them crazy?"

"Two hundred years ago? Yes," said Ben, "they tried powering down the grid, but they discovered it was connected to the life support systems. No viable back-up. Many tried to destroy the screens and transmitters, but the robots that maintain and repair the vault would also repair those. No one wanted to destroy the robots or else they wouldn't know how to get by. Eventually, nearly two generations of Vault-dwellers passed before they finally developed a method of controlling the images and sounds. Unfortunately, that was too late for their collective sanity."

"What happened?" Ric asked, his breath clouded up the cold air.

Ben looked at him and then returned his gaze to the fire, "The Overseer turned the televisions back on again – but this time, for the first time in decades, there was new entertainment."

Ric considered Ben's bitter tone and gently asked, "Were _you_ the entertainment?"

"Eventually, yes," he said. "Society was split in two by the Overseer. There were the Entertained and the Entertainers. We come from a long line of trained Entertainers, my parents and I."

Ben paused. He was unfamiliar with the welling emotion at the base of his throat. The last he saw of his mother and father was two years ago. They were preparing to escape from the Vault during a rare opportunity: the annual Sweeps ceremony. His mother insisted Ben join them, but he refused. He did not understand why they wished to leave. They were true stars. Their lifestyle provided them with food, shelter, and adoration. Why did either of them wish for more?

Yet he was their son, so he did not stand in their way. The days that followed the incident were a blur to him. He was accused of facilitating an escape and then he was locked in isolation as punishment. Even to this day, he still didn't know the fate of his parents, if they had made it to the surface or not. All he knew was that he had not fared well in the aftermath.

The Overseer ordered the mark on Ben's face. It was a sign in their contained culture that meant Ben would forever carry the sins of his father. Even when he was freed from confinement and allowed to take part in the arena games once again, he felt far too changed to revel in the programmed battles, the constant roar of the Entertained masses. He knew was no longer revered, but a joke, a fool.

That was when he started to think of freedom, just as his parents had done. It took Ben two years, but he had managed it – not by escape, but by banishment.

After all, who would dare get in the way of the monster that beheaded the Overseer in cold blood?

"You don't sound crazy," Ric muttered, interrupting the long silence between them. When Ben gave him a sharp look, he hastily added, "I mean, you said that folks were sorta nuts from all that programming, but, um, you look... fine?"

"Perhaps," Ben blinked. His gaze darted away as he considered this. "Perhaps it was my mother's influence in my formative years," he said. "My father was somewhat like the rest, but Mother... she had a talent for bending the sounds away from my ears. As a child, before my training began, she would give me hours of respite from the noise. She would sing me lullabies..." He couldn't manage to say anything more than that.

The silence returned. Ric studied the blanket in his hands for a moment before he draped it across both their shoulders. It was large enough to share. "I'm guessing you don't want to talk about the tattoo," he said.

"I would rather not," Blue eyes focused on Ric, their heads were bent close. "Although if you require it of me... If you suspect that I –"

"Nah, don't worry," Ric whispered back. "I trust you, Star-man."

Touched and very relieved, Ben didn't know what to say. Instead, he elbowed Ric in the ribs. "Do not call me that again, Surface-dweller."

"Ow, okay, okay," Ric laughed, happy to change the subject. He huddled closer. "Hey, Ben, about the cold? I've got an idea..."

 

5.

"Star! Watch your six!"

In one smooth movement, Ben beheaded both the feral leaping at his face and the second one at his back. When he completed his turn, he saw a third grotesque creature appear behind the second. Ric dispatched it with two quick shots.

In the ensuing silence, both men crouched low, listening. Centuries ago, this was the third floor of an extensive office building. Today, it was no more than a nest for ferals, molerats, and other mutated creatures. Their reason for entering the death trap was simple: _supplies_. If one knew how to look, abandoned buildings were a veritable treasure-trove of money, ammo and canned goods.

Ben's ears picked up on a scratch-and-skittering that came from the left corridor. He signaled and moved down the hall cautiously. Ric followed after he collected a few bottle caps from headless ferals that had once been fellow Wastelanders.

This was the second facility they cleared out together, but they were already settling into a rhythm of brief hand signals and unspoken action. Ben always took point. He insisted on fighting with the two Chinese army swords he had scavenged for himself. Ric 'took shotgun' – as he liked to say – since he quite literally carried one with him all of the time.

Ben reached the corner first and peered around. Suddenly, he jumped back and knelt down on the debris-littered floor, swords pointed up. "Murklurk!" he shouted.

Ric cursed and raised his weapon as a dark hulk lumbered into his line of sight. A murklurk resembled a lobster man, with short legs, clawed hands and a large, thick carapace. Ric unloaded a round at the creature's head, but the shot ricocheted off its shell, undamaged. He cursed again.

With blades aimed upward, Ben thrust his swords into the only narrow weakness in the murklurk's armor – its face.

Brain-dead and twitching uncontrollably, the creature slumped forward. Ben kicked it over and used a sword to crack open its belly. He sliced into the muscle and fat.

"Hey," reloading he weapon, Ric approached Ben with a smile, "You inviting me to dinner?"

Ben smiled back, a rare gesture that was becoming more frequent these days. "Depends. Do you like seafood?"

 

6.

That night, they found an abandoned shack tucked in the rubble of the old Beltway. There were a few boxes of supplies and ammo inside. Ric declared they would stay the night when he noticed the mattress and the cooking oven. He called them 'wasteland luxuries.'

Over their meal of murklurk meat and nuka-cola, Ric asked, "How'd you get to be so good at martial arts?"

"Hm?" Ben glanced up at him, "Mm." He tapped his star tattoo.

"Huh," Ric returned to his meal. "No business like show business."

With another glance, Ben asked his own question, "Why do you rely on guns and rifles?"

Ric shrugged, "My old man once led a caravan, selling weapons mostly. Taught me how handle most of 'em. Ran into some nasty raiders and that was the end of him." He quieted as his thoughts lingered on his father.

Then, he said thoughtfully, "If I could, I'd never pick up a gun. But out here on the Wastelands? What else can a guy do? I can't do those crazy spins and flips like you." Smirking, Ric added, "I've got a mean right hook, though."

Ben smiled, "If you believe so."

"Shut up," Ric shot back without any venom. He watched as Ben cleaned up the remains of his meal and swallowed a Radaway tablet to decrease the radiation levels in his system. The medicine prevented people from decomposing into a sapient ghoul, or worse – a feral. This was one of the many necessities to survive the wastes and Ric had to teach as much of this stuff to Ben as possible.

Stripped of his recently discovered jacket and his boots, Ben undid the braid holding back his long hair and moved toward the dusty mattress in the corner. "Not since leaving the Vault have I had the chance to enjoy the comfort of an actual mattress," he said. He lay down and gave Ric an expectant look.

Silently, Ric peeled off his shoes and stood next to the makeshift bed. "Kind of narrow," he said.

Ben shifted. He pressed back against the wall to give more room. "Is this better?"

Ric grunted as he lay down and turned to his side, facing his back to Ben.

Since they began this habit, sleeping side by side was such a chaste act that a nun could measure the distance between them to her shrewd satisfaction. Tonight, however, confined by the bed, there just wasn't enough room.

Ric felt a warm breath against his neck. He could sense Ben fidgeting as he tried to arrange his arms in a way that would not disrupt Ric's rest, but those limbs were too long to tuck away without touching, so it was a bothersome task.

A few uncertain moments passed until Ric relented to a selfish need and pressed his back against Ben's chest. The silent invitation was clear to Ben, but he hesitated. Carefully, he draped his arm over Ric's torso and inadvertently pulled him close, offering his other arm to pillow Ric's head. Ben murmured something, an apology or an excuse that didn't matter, because Ric couldn't hear anything over the deafening drumbeat against his ribs.

Ric felt fingers brush through his scruffy hair and his heart slowly calmed. He could hear his name being spoken. "Yeah?" he responded.

"Is something wrong?" Ben asked quietly. "You have been rather quiet."

Ric made a noncommittal sound, "Besides radiation, slavers, and wild animals?"

"Yes."

Ric pulled a little farther from Ben's embrace, careful to avoid an honest answer. "Go to sleep."

7.

Discouraged by the slim pickings in the upper floors of the Stark Capital Ltd Building, the two men decided that the sub-basement passages were worth a look. As a general rule: the more dangerous the area, the more likely that other scavengers had not made it there first.

Half an hour later, they were hiding out in a nook within a complex web of caves leading from the sub-basement. It was dark, the radiation levels were high, and they were trapped.

"Olly olly oxen free!" A shot rang out in the caves, followed by the echoes of hysterical giggling. The laughter cut off as the voice demanded, "WHERE IS SHE!?"

Trapped with a mad man wandering the caves, out for their blood.

As the disembodied voice began to sing 'where is she' in a dissonant tune, Ric knelt down in their hiding place and leaned over to Ben. "Leave this to me."

"I can take him," Ben whispered, insistent.

"He tricked out his gun to shoot railroad spikes!" Ric whispered back.

"I can -"

"No," Ric met Ben's eyes. He meant it this time. "Are you with me or against me on this one?" he asked. His tone made it clear that if Ben chose the latter, he was on his own. Ric did not agree to travel with Ben just to see a good friend die.

Grudgingly, Ben relented, "I am with you."

"Great," he said. "Now, stop stealing all the action."

"..."

"Glare at me all you want," he said. "You're still a glory hog." Quickly, Ric checked and reloaded his shotgun. He didn't want anything to go wrong in the next 20 seconds.

"Cowards!" the voice echoed off the walls, much louder than before. "Cowaaaaards!"

Ben bristled, swords raised, ready to prove the attacker wrong.

Ric swept his hand down in a sharp movement, signaling Ben to be still.

"Where is she!?"

After he took a long, unsteady breath, Ric shouted down the tunnel, "She's right here!"

Ric stepped out of their hiding place.

"Where -" a figure appeared at the mouth of the tunnel. Ric fired, disappointed to see that the shot only took out a portion of the man's thigh.

"ARGH!" The attacker raised his crudely-made weapon and aimed at Ric's chest. "I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL –"

"Down!" Ben shouted. He knocked the wind out of Ric when he tackled him from the side.

A line burned across Ben's ribs from a flying metal spike. A deafening blast right next to his ear rocked his senses. Then they both hit the ground.

Ben raised his head and quickly assessed his surroundings. An eerie silence pervaded the tunnels. He felt a brief panic that his partner's desperate shot took out his hearing, but soon Ric's shouts prevailed over the ringing in his ears. Ben looked down, his face inches from his partner.

"Star! Star, did he get you?" Ric demanded, breathless under the crush of weight. "Are you bleeding?"

"Quiet," Ben whispered. "He could be hiding anywhere."

"He's _nowhere_ now. Look!" Ric twisted his head to the side and Ben peered down the tunnel. In the dim light of the lanterns, a body lay there, arms and legs splayed out. Above the body, a grotesque abstract painting was splattered across the cave wall. It was the remains of the attacker's skull.

 

8.

They discovered the dead man's name in his jacket pocket. It was written in a small notebook that had tiny handwriting on almost every page.

Ric sat down on the side of the old highway to read the journal in an effort to understand a man he killed out of necessity.

It had taken them nearly four hours to dig a hole into the packed earth deep enough to bury the corpse. This was not a common chore, but the dead man was not a raider, a slaver, nor a feral. He was something altogether different. Somehow it felt wrong to leave him to rot.

So after the burial and a few hours rest, Ric read the man's journal as Ben occupied himself with two old planks of wood and a switchblade.

Ric looked up from the notebook and asked, "How is it?"

"Nearly finished," Ben replied, sounding satisfied with his work. "The book?"

"Same."

"What is it like?" he asked, though he really meant to ask was ' _who the hell was he?_ '

Studying the pages in his hands, Ric brushed his fingers over the scribbled words. "Pretty sad. The guy was keeping a journal to pass down to his son and teach him how to survive. Then here," he indicated a passage near the middle of the book, "there was an accident of some kind. Seems it was his fault his son died. His wife left him, so he got fixated on finding her again. He was crazy enough to think that'd bring their son back somehow."

Ric skimmed through the pages. The writing became more erratic the further into the book, a stream of conscious monologue of a man spiraling out of control. "Grief turned into fixation turned into obsession turned into madness." He glanced up at Ben, "It happens in the wastelands. Sometimes."

"Oh," Ben said. Unable to add any deep insight, he sat silent.

Ric set the journal on the ground. As gently as he could manage, he asked, "Can you read?"

"...I know my letters," Ben replied. He showed him his handiwork.

Ric studied the carvings and nodded, "Not bad." As he handed the carving back, Ric bent forward to take a look at the bandage wrapped around Ben's side. "How's that feel?"

" _Horrible_ ," Ben assured him. He had a trace of humor in his eyes. "But it is a flesh wound and I heal fast."

"You nearly got a railroad spike shoved through your –"

"You nearly did as well," Ben interrupted. "Let us be glad to be alive."

Ric sat back. He fiddled with a corner of his jacket as his companion tied the pieces of wood together with a length of wire. "So," he said, uncertain. "You saved my life."

"True," Ben paused and tipped his head to the side, thoughtful. "You saved me from slavery."

"I guess we're finally even," Ric said, surprised that his voice was softer than he intended. Ben was a fast learner. He had managed to adapt in ways that had taken Ric a lifetime. Now, after this, he no longer had an obligation to travel with Ric. He would be fine on his own.

Finished, Ben pushed the wooden cross deep into the soil. He carefully minded the fresh wound below his ribs as he straightened up.

He stepped around the dirt mound and stood beside Ric at the foot of the grave. The silence stretched out between them, both steeped in their own thoughts.

"I'm going home," Ric blurted out, startling them both. "It's not, I mean, it's not a 'home' really but it's where I keep my stuff and..." he backpedaled and tried again, "There's plenty supplies and shelter and everyone in the town sort of knows me, so I, uh –"

"A town," Ben looked at him, curious. "I have never been to a town before."

"Oh," Ric said. "Well, then it's decided."

Trying to fight down the heat on his face, Ric cleared his throat and stepped forward. Over the grave, he said a few words of farewell to the stranger's soul, in case the guy was still around and was in need of proper respects. Ben did his best to follow suit, although he did not know how best to offer words. Ric assured him he did a good job.

Soon, the two men made their way east toward the Capital. In their wake they left little else on the barren land, except for a worn notebook and a wood cross bearing the name: _James Arthur Madrox_

 

9.

In the town of Megaton, Ric kicked open the door to a weather-beaten shack. "Oh e'er so humble, right?"

Ben peered inside the two-story house, a dimly lit and musty building with a few metal lockers stacked against a wall. It was drafty and the kitchen consisted of only some shelves and a fridge. He was completely fascinated by the welcome surroundings. "This is very different from the living quarters in the Vault," he said.

"'Different' is the nicest way I've ever heard anyone put it," Ric scratched the back of his neck. It was a self-conscious gesture. "Thanks. It's just a place to stash my stuff and recoup. I barely stay long enough to really settle in. It's... it's not supposed to be much."

Ben leaned toward a cabinet to study Ric's amusing Vault-Tec bobble head collection. He was uncertain what his wasteland partner was trying to say beneath the sheen of nervous words. Ben had quickly grown used to the practical aspects of survival in the Capital Wasteland, yet the social aspects were still quite mysterious to him.

Sometimes it was best to simply respond with the first sincere thought to come to mind. "This place smells of fresh earth and woodchips," he said.

"Uh, sorry, I - "

"It smells of you. I like it," Ben clarified. "We shall spend the night here, correct?"

Ric blinked at him. Unhooking the pack and the guns from his back to set next to the lockers, he scratched at the itch on his neck again, "Actually, I was hoping we could stay here a little while. Winter's getting pretty nasty, so I'd rather we slept somewhere with plenty of blankets and supplies. Drop your stuff here and I'll show you the upstairs."

The second floor was more hospitable, with a ragged couch and a table as part of a makeshift living room. Rictor fiddled with the radio on the table as Ben inspected the two narrow bedrooms, one well-used, while the other seemed completely untouched.

"That room is all yours," Ric said over his shoulder as he carefully tuned the radio to one of the few decent stations left in the Capital Wasteland. "Don't worry about rent," he added, relieved to hear the static clear up to form a pretty tune from ages past. "They gave me this place for free after I managed to disarm that old atomic bomb stuck in the middle of town. Good thing I lucked out with that or everyone in Megaton would've all been blown to kingdom - what?" He glanced up to see Ben giving him a strange look. "Hell. What'd I do now?"

Ben turned his head to the side. "We must sleep in different rooms?"

"Ah, about the sleeping arrangements..." Ric stood up, but he was unable to meet Ben's eyes. "I figure it'd be better if we slept separately from now on."

Ben frowned, "What is wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," Ric shrugged. "Not _wrong_ wrong, but definitely not right. There's something I should've told you. I didn't think you'd stay around for so long – but now it's been two weeks and you're still here and now I'm feeling like a dirty, stupid sunnova – "

His rambling stuttered to a halt when Ben reached out and touched his cheek. Swallowing past his pride and a heavy lump of fear, Ric looked his friend in the eyes and said, "Star, I'm gay."

"I thought I told you not to call me Star."

Ric backed away way from Ben's touch. "That's not what you're supposed to say, dumbass!"

"What do you wish for me to say?" Ben asked, confused.

"Wish?" The word was lodged in Ric's throat. "That's – it's not about what I, I, it's – Star, do you even know what gay means?"

"Of course I do. I was raised on wall-to-wall media programming."

"Then... you know why I'm telling you this?"

Ben shook his head slightly. "You... felt like sharing?"

"No! I mean, yes. I mean... that's not everything, but it's not like I just come out in the open to everyone who... y'know, sometimes it feels like I'm talking to an alien from an alternate dimension!"

"Aliens and alternate realities are two different genres. Do not mix them. Are you trying to infuriate me with your hysteria?"

"Fine! I'll spell it out for you. Look! I'm gay," Ric pointed at himself. "You're _hot_ ," he jabbed a finger at Ben's chest accusingly. "And I haven't been using the sleeping together thing for body heat. That's just an excuse to be close to you 'cause – 'cause I'm a selfish, horny bastard trying to squeeze a little happiness out of my sad, pathetic existence. Okay? Do you get it now?" He wasn't sure if he wanted to cry or shout, but he was pretty damn close to either extreme.

Ben rubbed the spot where Ric jabbed him. "Oh..." he said, thoughtful.

"At first I thought it wouldn't be a big deal - that you'd be gone in a couple of days and I'd have the memory of some hot guy I slept near for a few nights. No harm, no foul. But you... you never left and you're acting like you're not planning on going anywhere and, and... you never stop looking so damn perfect. It's killing me, man! I'm can't just walk away without wanting to – "

Ben frowned, "Kiss me."

Ric winced, "Yeah. So you see how it's just not – "

"I wasn't facilitating your foolish speech," Ben drew close to Ric and slipped an arm around the man's waist. "I was making a demand."

Neither said another word. The silence between them was only accompanied by a tinny radio song and then the harsh creak of an old mattress finally being put to good use.

 _Who knows where the road will lead us  
Only a fool would say  
But if you'll let me love you  
It's for sure I'm gonna love you  
All the way_

  
When the song dissipated into the musty air, a piercing howl broke through the stillness. It was followed by the enthusiastic catcalls of the radio DJ.

"Heeeeeeeey, there! How's your night been, my lovely Wastelanders! This is Loooooooong _shot_! Bringing you the sweetest tunes this and that side of the Potomac! Just now was the sweet songbird Billie Holiday with ' _All the way_.' Next up here on Galaxy News Radio –"

Ric hit the floor with a heavy thump. He yelped as pain shot up his shoulder. "What the hell, Star?" he shouted at Ben, who was still perched on the mattress. "Why did you -"

"That voice..." Ben stared at the radio in shock. "That... that's my father."

10.

Ric had his favorite green bandanna around his mouth and nose, but that didn't help. The acrid stench was so powerful that it seared the back of his throat.

He wiped his watery eyes with a ragged sleeve but it only made the stinging worse.

"Are you alright?" Ben called out. He was walking ten feet ahead of him in the abandoned subway tunnel.

Ric pulled the bandanna down and spat on the ground to clear his throat. He put the mask back in place and said, "I hate taking the Metro."

"But you said – "

"I know." The only way to get inside city limits was through the old Metro train tunnels. "Doesn't mean I ever enjoy this. I try to avoid the Capital if I can help it."

After he checked the path to ensure no signs of immediate danger, Ben turned back, his swords still at the ready. "You should go back to Megaton. I should not have asked you to join me."

"You didn't ask for anything. I said I would," Ric grumbled. "Someone has to show you how to make it into the city. The train lines are swarming with ferals and raiders, hell, anyone can get lost down here and most of the tunnels are flooded from the Potomac."

"No matter. I will find him," said Ben with a stony expression. "I will go alone."

Ric did not like what that implied. It was rare to make a friend in the Wastelands, and even more so a lover. But this Longshot guy was Ben's family. Ric had nothing to offer that could compete with someone as important as one's own father.

Something churned at the pit of Ric's stomach. He knew having Ben around wouldn't last, even when he had confessed his attraction. Eventually, Ben would need to walk one way and Ric would be left to walk another.

"You don't want me with you on this?" he asked, cautious.

Ben bristled at the accusation. "I did not say that."

"Good. Let's get going," Ric readied his shotgun and exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding back. It was settled. He'd take any extra hour with Ben that he could get. "We've got a loony old man to find."

They soon emerged from the train tunnels into a vast man-made cavern of what was still known as Farragut West Station. The ground floor was a mess of garbage, abandoned subway cars, and collapsed wreckage. They worked their way through the debris and climbed up a rusted escalator to reach a high platform. There was an old Metro map posted by the ticket gates.

Ben was about to ask where to go next when a sound chilled his blood. "Did you hear that?" he drew his swords.

"Sounds like ferals. A shitload of them," Ric glanced down the escalator. "They're coming from the tunnels."

"No, it's ahead of us, from the entrance."

They shared a look.

"Fuck me," Ric muttered, his eyes wide. "We're surrounded."

 

11.

"You're surrounded, Ric!" Jimmy felt the sweat sting his eyes. He and his fellow Brotherhood soldiers had just finished raiding a Metro station packed with vicious ferals. He was glad to see an old friend in the center of the melee.

He wasn't so happy when the fighting ended and the old friend turned on Jimmy's commander.

The Brotherhood of Steel existed to protect all of the people of the Capital Wastelands, be they meek or strong, clever or – in Ric's case – complete morons. Jimmy and his fellow soldiers had their weapons raised. Red laser sights crisscrossed the air and homed in on Ric's forehead.

Jimmy kept his laser rifle steady as he shouted to Ric through the mic in his Brotherhood armor. "This is a bitch move and you know it."

"Shut up, Jimmy," Ric said. He tried to keep his voice level. "This ain't about you."

"You should listen to them," said the grizzly soldier facing Ric. "They're your friends." The man wore the upgraded power armor of a full-fledged commander from the Brotherhood of Steel, but his helmet was off. It didn't matter that Ric had a shotgun aimed between his eyes - the wizened soldier wasn't afraid of facing down some misguided brat from Rivet City.

"Don't even start," Ric glared at the commander. He wasn't going to let this chance slip through his fingers a second time.

"You're a good guy and you've got a good life. Don't make us waste that," the lieutenant commander, a kid named Sammy, pleaded with him, but the electronic buzz of the helmet mic drained the humanity from his voice. Ric ignored him.

Ben stepped between the armored soldiers and Ric. He ignored the laser sights. "Julio," he whispered into Ric's ear. It was a name entrusted to him several nights before in a moment of intimacy. "I do not understand why you wish that man dead. They saved our lives moments ago."

"It... it's complicated," Ric replied. He could not meet his partner's eyes.

"It's a _misunderstanding_ ," the commander interrupted, loudly.

Ric was quickly losing patience with him. "I will blow you head off if I hear another word," he warned.

"And I will blast yours clean off your scrawny shoulders if you so much as hiccup," a third armored officer chimed in – the cold voice from a woman known as Dani. "Go ahead."

"Julio," Ben tried again, keeping his voice low. "They surround you. If you kill that man, I cannot protect you." He took a breath, hiding any emotion in his voice, "And then I will kill _all four of them_. This is selfish of me, but I do not wish to be left with no one but bodies to bury."

Ric didn't move. He listened.

"Is he worth your life? Is he worth theirs?" Ben asked, following Ric's gaze to the stone-faced commander.

After a tense moment of silence, Ric lowered the gun, muttering, "He's not worth shit."

A collective sigh surrounded the two men as the fully-armored soldiers holstered their weapons. The one to the left, Jimmy, unclipped his helmet and yanked it off to reveal a wide, angular face. His expression relaxed into a smile, though a sardonic one, "I swear, Ric, if we keep running into you like this, it's gonna give me an ulcer." The other soldiers joked as well, high on the afterburn of an adrenaline rush.

The commander simply stood there, same as when he first took off his helmet and faced Ric down. Now, however, his attention was not on the hotheaded young man, but on his strange companion.

 

12.

Twenty minutes later and it was as if the standoff never happened. The Brotherhood soldiers – Sammy, Jimmy, Dani and Doug – sat with Ric around a small fire.

The camp was hastily built right on the elevated entrance platform overlooking the dark, cavernous Metro station. Although they could not use the area to sleep, they could take an hour or two to rest and eat. The soldiers disassembled their body armor to carefully clean and check everything as they joked with Ric and snacked on whatever food was being passed around. Ric shared some of the supplies he and Ben had brought with them for the long trek, including a package of sugar bombs that Jimmy was happy to claim.

Ben stood, arms crossed as he watched the relaxed group from a dozen feet away. To see his partner so friendly and cheerful after nearly killing a man... Ben was beginning to understand the sort of extremes people suffered outside of a controlled environment.

The commander stood next to him, a quiet guardian over his troops. "Aren't you going to go sit with them?" he asked.

"This is a secluded area, but there are multiple entrances. Someone should stay alert, Commander," Ben replied.

"Call me Cable. Unlike the rest of the Brotherhood, I don't need to sound important to earn my unit's respect," he said with a thin smile. "All it takes is the guts to fight alongside them."

"Yes, sir... Cable," Ben corrected. He suddenly felt like a 10 year old undergoing his first day of Arena training. A memory flashed through his mind of when he looked up and saw his mother and father cheering him on from the observation deck.

"You are well-mannered for a kid. Well-trained too," Cable said. "I never thought I'd ever see a single man take down seven ferals with an old pair of swords."

"Thank you."

A comfortable silence passed between the two before the older man said, "Guess you're wondering about what that scuffle was all about."

"Yes," Ben said, his tone distant, cold, "but what business is it of mine?"

"Got a point there," the side of the Cable's face wrinkled as his approximation of a grin returned. "Still. I want you to understand."

"I am listening."

Cable nodded toward Ric, who was sitting out of earshot and sharing a can of baked beans with the others. "He thinks I killed someone important to him."

Ben recalled the story of Ric's father and wondered if Ric was right, if this commander had once been a raider. He didn't move, but his mind raced through scenarios: fight or flight, kill or be killed. Trust was a luxury, as he had learned, so was Cable worth trusting?

Cautiously, Ben asked, "Did you?"

"No. Though it's difficult to prove my innocence," Cable gave a cynical bark of laughter. "A man cloned from my genetic material had done it... though that's pretty hard to prove on the spot."

"Perhaps you should have said it was a 'twin' that did it," Ben offered. "The clone twist is never worth the short ratings boost. It is far more contrived than an estranged twin storyline and it fails to Entertain."

"What?"

"Sorry, Cable," Ben studied the filthy cement floor. "I had what might be considered a... unique upbringing."

"Huh, sounds like Vault 777," for such a grim man, Cable looked amused. "The T.V. hell."

"I have never heard it called that before, but yes," Ben admitted, "triple-seven."

"You're different from another Vault-dweller I know. Like I said: you're well-disciplined," Cable regarded the younger man and carefully chose his next words. "You could make a good soldier. The Brotherhood could use men like you."

Ben did not pick up on the implication. "Who is the other Vault-dweller?"

"Hmph, that loudmouth on the radio every day – Longshot," Cable gestured down to the abandoned tunnels. "He's north from here – near Tenleytown Station."

"Hm. Then that is where Ric and I will go."

"Our unit is heading north to rendezvous with another group," Cable explained. "GNR headquarters are along the way."

Ben warmed to the suggestion, "Then if you would not mind our company..."

"As long you keep your friend from killing me, we're good."

 

13.

"Here I am again, your beloved, your precious – Loooooooong _shot_! And oooohheee have we got some lovely ladies lined up! Next up is a rock ballad from the Banshee of the Beltway, and then we have yet another installment of everyone's favorite radio show _The Adventures of St. Croix_ and her trusty ghoul servant, Darwin! But before I get to the music, a little public service announcement to all you Wastelanders out there: Don't feed the molerats! Practice some common sense folks – those things are _not_ pets!"

Longshot flipped the microphone off and spun around in his seat. He was surprised by who he saw in the doorway.

"Well, I'll be damned to reruns..." he leaped out of his chair, arms outstretched. "Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!"

Ben grunted uncomfortably as Longshot embraced him with far too much enthusiasm. He managed an awkward pat on the head in return. Ben gripped his father by his shoulders and pushed him away far enough to get a good look at him.

The past two years did not treat Longshot kindly. Ben must have grown a head taller since they last met, because the man who had once been so towering and larger-than-life could now barely reach Ben's chin.

His father not only seemed shorter, he was much thinner thanks to the terrible, radiated diet of the surface life. The tiny wrinkles on the corners of his blue eyes - Longshot's secret to charming an audience with a knowing wink - were now deep lines on his pale face. He wore a stained baseball cap over his thin, shoulder-length hair. It was such a far cry from the thick golden locks that won the admiration of so many, Ben suspected that the hat was to hide any trace of balding on top.

Longshot's smile – a vivacious, joyous affair – was still his most recognizable feature. It was painfully out of place from the rest him.

"You look, ah, healthy," said Ben, keeping his expression neutral.

"And you, son! You are so," giving him a good look-over, Longshot pulled a face and settled with, " _tall_. Freakishly tall."

Ben bit the inside of his mouth to manage a wince that closely resembled a smile. "Yes, thank you. Six-foot-three, actually."

Same as he ever was, Longshot's attention shifted in a completely new direction. He peered around his son and spotted the dark young man who stood awkwardly at the entrance. His infamous smile returned. "Who is this?" he asked his son. He liked new faces best of all things. He waved. "Hello, there!"

"Hello... Mr. Russell," Ric said with a small wave.

"Mr. Russell sounds like an awful bore! Call me Longshot. Everyone does. Or they would if they ever visited, but no one really does. Which is a shame, you know, because I'm famous. I have a radio show. You should listen to it. What's _your_ name?" Longshot moved toward the doorway. His son's arm blocked the way. "Hey!"

"Stop it," Ben ordered. He wasn't about to get Julio involved in this if he could. As his mother would say on bad days: Ben's father was a walking chaos theory. Everything and everyone Longshot came in contact with seemed to spiral into disarray, for good or ill. "That is not important. We need to talk, father."

"Aw, Benny," Longshot relented with a pout. He retreated to his favorite chair, the one with wheels. "You sound like your mother when you say that."

"I, uh, I'll be waiting outside, Star," Ric offered. He disappeared through the door before Ben could catch the pained look.

"Staaaaaar," Longshot cooed in a sing-song pitch. He leaned back and spun around in his chair slowly. He spoke as if just to himself, "Now what a cute nickname. So much better than that stage name of yours, boy – what was it? Starshot? Glitterstar? Star Wars?"

"Shatterstar," Ben answered blandly. "And you are the one who gave me that moniker."

"Moniker. I love that word! Moooonnnneeeehkch –"

"Father."

"Yes! Sorry, what was that again? Something about a talk," Longshot grinned and tapped his temple. "See! I remembered, son."

"Good. I am glad," Ben reached out and stopped the chair from spinning. He looked down to catch his father's wild gaze. In a voice both low and dangerous, Ben said, "There is something else I would like you to remember."

 

14.

Twenty minutes later, Ben left the headquarters of Galaxy News Radio with a heavy spirit.

Peering around, he realized that it was twilight over the Capital Wastelands. The gray sky turned slightly pink before sliding into a much darker gray. He saw Ric sitting several feet away, silhouetted in the dying light. Ric's pack was at his feet and he had his shotgun balanced on his lap.

Ben approached Ric to see what he was staring at on the horizon. It was a tall pillar of stone. Ben had seen that pillar in a book once. It was the ruins of the Washington Monument.

Ric was the first to break the silence, "Is he sick?"

Ben looked down and met his eyes. He liked those eyes. Warm and brown.

"Not radiation," Ric corrected. "In the head, I mean."

"No," Ben offered a small shrug. "No more, nor less, than the others from the Vault."

He sat down on a clear spot on the rubble nearest to Ric. "Sometimes I feel certain that my mother and I were the only ones to retain our sanity. Seeing my father..." he sighed, "and my doubts are even less." He played the conversation over in his mind. Ben had demanded to know what happened when Longshot and Allison, his mother, made their escape from Vault 777. "He wasn't so bad before, but something happened to him since I last saw him. I do not think he will ever be the real Longshot again."

"Oh," Ric looked away, uncomfortable. "Um, you don't have to tell me but I want to ask... what happened to your mom?"

Ben shook his head, eyes shut. He could feel a burning behind his eyelids and took a moment to let the sensation pass over him. His voice was steady when he said, "She never made it out of the Vault."

"Oh... Sorry, Star."

They sat, studying what was left of the old world in the fading light.

"Your dad seems happy, at least," Ric said, eventually. He looked around at the surrounding buildings. "Not a bad spot to be holed up either. High walls. Steep incline. Easy to defend."

"If one likes this sort of place," said Ben. He knew what Ric was getting at. He also knew he would not be his father's keeper - not at the expense of his own happiness. Longshot had told him as much just moments ago. If his father ever really needed him, Ben could keep a radio tuned to WGNR just in case.

When the light vanished and the night began to settle in, Ric stood and hefted his pack over his shoulder. He exhaled a long sigh. "I need to go, Star. I'm heading back into the Metro. I gotta find some shelter for the night."

"Hm?" Ben looked up from where he sat, more peaceful and at ease than Ric had ever seen him.

"Night. _Shelter._ I should go," Ric said, fidgeting where he stood - ready to leave, but not ready at all. "I've got a nasty allergy to ferals, so I try to avoid 'em where I can."

Ben smiled at the lame joke. "Where are we going next?"

"We?" Ric asked, hopeful.

"We," Ben's smile grew wider.

Ric glanced back at the radio station. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Ben stood up and brushed the dust off his pants. He walked up to Ric and stood well within the other man's personal boundaries. He waited to hear what Ric had to say about that.

Ric looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he leaned over to capture Ben's mouth in a long, lingering kiss. When he finally stepped back, he asked, "Where do you want to go from here?"

"Hm... we could sign up with the Brotherhood of Steel," Ben suggested.

Ric rolled his eyes, "Don't kill the mood, Star."

 

15.

 _But if you'll let me love you  
It's for sure I'm gonna love you  
All the way_


End file.
